...with tears of love

Remembering Angels

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 06:38:00 +0000

I am sorry that I have been missing from this precious space over the past few weeks. As my due date has approached it has been difficult for me to be here. As I have been contemplating how I will remember our son this week, I asked a dear friend, Lani of Me & Boo - who is much further along this journey - to share how she remembers on significant dates...

The lovely Christie has a significant date coming up this week. Instead of celebrating the birth of her second child, she will be thinking of the baby that should have been a physical part of her family, rather than the baby who has been lost* but will forever live in her heart.

Her Angel Baby.

I am sure Christie and her family will create their own traditions for remembering/recognising significant dates. However she chooses to remember her Angel, will be right for her. There is no right way or wrong way.

I have my own traditions for remembering my Angel Kai. They involve lots of tears about those lost dreams I had for him.

Yellow roses play a large part in remembering my little boy. They have always been a favourite of mine, and when Kai was born I received a couple of bouquets of yellow roses. I have 2 yellow rose bushes in the garden and when they’re in bloom I often spend at least a few minutes looking at them everyday, thinking about Kai, 'the what could haves' and the 'what should have beens.'

On Kai’s birthday, I always have yellow roses in the house. I HAVE to have yellow roses in the house on that day. I remember literally hunting the city (with an 11 month old in tow) for yellow roses on Kai’s 2nd birthday/anniversary. There was a shortage of them. Each florist I went to, I became more panicked and anxious as they said ‘No.’ I found some eventually, and immediately felt more at peace.

I have a memory box that comes out on Kai’s birth date. I allow myself to sit and cry with it for a long time and take out all the things that remind me he was real. The box contains my ultrasound pictures, Kai’s tiny hand and foot prints, photos, cards from people who cared, a guardian angel, some pressed yellow roses, the handmade quilt and heart that were in Kai’s moses basket in the hospital, a recognition of life certificate, 2 teddy bears I was given, the little blue box Kai’s ashes were in, and a blue bunny. I bought the blue ‘Baby’s 1st Bunny’ when I first found out I was pregnant. It is exactly the same size as Kai was when he was born.

Boo (who is now 5 years old) in the last year or so, has become aware of the memory box. She often asks if we can get Kai’s box down and look at his things. We do this together, and we talk about Kai and how he’s our special Angel.

I always go to the beach on Kai’s birth date. It is where I spent much of my bonding time with him, and much of my grieving time. It is also where his ashes were released in a blue helium balloon. Until Kai’s 6th anniversary, I’ve always taken the day off work. Last year, it just wasn’t a possibility, though I didn’t achieve much work.

Kai’s actual due date never passes me by unnoticed. The first 2 years that date was tough, and I spent it much as I spend Kai’s birth date. However over time, my due date has faded in significance. I have slowly come to realise that even if he was well, and I had a term pregnancy, he probably would not have been born on that date.

I wish Christie and her family much love in the coming weeks.

* I don’t really like using the word lost for angel babies because we know where they are, but I don’t have a better word.

How do you remember on significant dates?

Read Kai's story here.

A Difficult Story to Tell

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 23:38:00 +0000

In 2008, on the 1st of December, we found out that we were expecting Baby #3.

It was a total shock, but what made it even more shocking was that we were so far along, way into our second trimester. Well, it was not meant to be.

I started to miscarry on December 18th and was in the hospital for much of the time until December 24th. Found out that I was 20 weeks...devastating to lose a baby so far along, but yet, it was not far along to have a funeral for a fully formed little one.

But just wish that people would be more sensitive...

People who make comments they think will help but don't are the ones who say things like:
"I know how you feel. my cat died and I miss him"...No offense to cat lovers but losing a cat and losing a baby are not the same thing.

or " Well, it probably would have been deformed or had some serious handicaps and so really, God did you a favor"...this is not what someone wants to hear who has lost a baby...it is not comforting to hear this in any way whatsoever.

or " You were that far along and you didn't even know you were pregnant? What is wrong with you?!? No wonder you lost the baby, if you were so out of tune with your body to know that you were pregnant"! That is not only unhelpful, it is mean.
I was having what I thought were periods but turned out to be spotting. I had called my mom to ask about maybe if I could be going through early menopause, or maybe it was just due to the stress of having to move...
I had gained some weight, but not much...we were in the process of moving so it was not that surprising that my back hurt and that I seemed tired, etc.

Also, doing things like calling to ask why Christmas presents were just sent in a plain box versus having each present individually wrapped and not even acknowledging that the sender had just lost a baby...Totally insensitive...

I know all three of these from personal experience that some people decided to make these comments to me.

It is going to take a while for me to let these feelings of anger go against the insensitive people who made these comments. It may take a lifetime to fully get over losing a baby at 20 weeks, but I have to get over it and have a new normal or else it will hinder my life and those around me.I have to work at living for the here and now...for my darling boys and wonderful husband who need me to be fully living for today, not dwelling on this most difficult time from our recent past...

I am hoping to create some sort of memory ornament for the tree, but that has to be it...after that I need to live in the present and be happy for our two little blessings who are here with us.

Colleen's memory ornament, which is engraved on the back

Big Bro was really affected by the miscarriage last year. He was so angry and sad when I came home sans baby, as we unfortunately had shared our joy and delight about the news that we were expecting. He so wanted to have another baby in our home.
He has worked through his emotions, with the help of a play therapist, and at the therapist's suggestion last year, we got a puppy.
Let me tell you, a puppy does not fill the void for a grieving mommy or daddy, although it did seem to help our sons.

So I am trying to keep very positive but today has been a rough day...
Just trying to continually remind myself of how nice our life is and how wonderful the boys and my dear hubby are to me.

Well, I just had to get it out there. I have not been able to really speak of how devastating it was but now, I have said it and am gearing up to embrace life in the present and the wondrous Christmas season that is unfolding.
I need to feel peace and joy in my soul and I need to be grateful for the gifts from God all around us. Just still don't know why it was not meant to be...that is the burning million dollar question that has to be put to rest in order to enjoy the holidays. I just have to think that it was not meant to be and not dwell on the why part...

Here's wishing that this is a wonderful happy holiday time here in our home and at your home, too.

For anyone else grieving, my thoughts and prayers are with you, too.

This post was originally published on Colleen's blog, Sunrise Learning Lab.

A Gathering

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 23:06:00 +0000

We gather
Young and old, tall and short, male and female,
Mothers, fathers, children, grandparents, friends
Family.

All here in common grief.
None of us deserve to be here.

The words wash over me
But I hear little.
In colour I see roses, butterflies
I feel sprinkles of rain
The names, so many names.
I am grey. And numb.

I see tears, so many tears,
Hidden behind glasses,
Cried into shoulders,
Silent tears, quiet sobs,
Bodies shaking with insurmountable grief.

We step forward
With equal measures of love and dread.
And I hold the memory of you in my hand
For just a moment
Before the breeze carries you away.

We remember.
And then it ends.
There is so much more to say.
And yet so much unwritten
In this short book of life.

I wrote these words moments after attending the hospital memorial service for our son born at 16 weeks gestation.

With tears of love, Christie x

It is good to feel...

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 23:00:00 +0000

I attended the White Butterfly Reflection Service this morning. It is a reflection service to acknowledge the loss of children during pregnancy or infancy. When I was first invited to the service, I was wondering why I would consider going. Hadn't I dealt with my miscarriage already? After all, it had now been 8 years since I lost my precious child. But as I read the invitation, I knew I had to go. A lump appeared in my throat. My heart was not fully healed from the loss of my child that I have never met.

My mother, sister and nieces and nephews came with too. They had lost a grand-daughter, niece and cousin respectively. It was special having so many members of my family there to acknowledge my daughter Lanay, whom none of us had met.

It was such a beautiful service. I felt my emotions overcome me looking around at how beautifully they had set up the service before it even began. During the service, there was an item of a woman dancing with 2 children dressed in white. I was fixated on the little girl. I could not take my eyes off her. In the moment I was swept away and it was my own daughter that was dancing before me. Free and whole and happy. Tears came and I could not stop them.

Then I looked over to the right of the stage area, and while the Pastor shared words of encouragement, an artist drew a picture. I watched as the picture took shape. It was a picture of a little girl. And I again felt sorrow that my daughter was not with me. I allowed the tears to flow. Grieving for the daughter that I would never see grow up with her brothers here on Earth. Grieving that I have not yet held my beautiful child that has gone to Eternity before me. My heart hurt. And the tears came.

Balloons and cards were given out. Messages on the cards to the children that we had lost were attached to the balloons, and released into the blue morning sky.

This is what I wrote:

Mummy misses you and loves you very much Lanay. xo

This is what Leader Boy Warrior wrote on his card:

I love you Lanay.

What surprised me the most was the emotions I felt at the service. I felt safe displaying them, as I was surrounded by people who knew what I was going through. Still, the depth of my emotions was a shock to me. Feelings that I didn't even know existed overcame me. I know not to suppress them, but allow the Holy Spirit to heal my heart by letting the emotions come. It is good to feel. It hurts to feel. But it is good to feel.

This post was first published on Jo-Anne's blog, Princess Warrior Lessons.

I wonder...

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 02:54:00 +0000

I read stories that pull my heart from my body.

I feel each mother's pain.

I feel my own pain. It will never leave me. I know this to be true.

I have carried 32 embryos in 16 IVF treatments. Some for only days. Some for a few weeks. Some for months. I have been a mother for 9 weeks, 10 weeks, 13 weeks, and for 15 weeks. I have have been pregnant 4 times. I have lost 7 babies.

I have put on my "happy face" and was a good friend to my good friends on the birth of their children.

My best friend has had 3 children through IVF.
She started IVF after I did. Her oldest is now 7. I was at her baby's christening 3 days after I lost our twins at 13 weeks. I thought if I didn't go I would never go.

I see children everyday. I see mothers everyday. I see mothers pregnant everyday. I teach young children everyday. And I am so excited for them and rejoice in their pregnancies and delight in their children's birth.

And I cry in secret everyday. Everyday.

I wonder if I should have stopped before number 16. But while there was hope......

I wonder if I should have done something differently but.......

I only ate organic food; I turned off the power at the box every night; I didn't have a bath for 6years; I took my many, many expensive vitamins every day; I only drank organic fresh vegetable juice I made; I only ate food I prepared; I didn't use the microwave; I didn't reheat food; I only used organic soap for cleaning; I eliminated all chemicals; I stopped using the computer; I walked everyday; I had acupuncture twice a week for 2 years; I continued at the gym, I cut back at the gym, I stopped the gym; I saw a psychologist and a Chinese herbalist and a counsellor and a NLP facilitator and a sala dancer instructor; I stopped drinking my 4 glasses of wine a week; I started drinking more than my 4 glasses of wine a week; I only ate organic fair trade chocolate; I burned essential oils; I read romance novels; I read pregnancy and childbirth books; I read "The Secret" 5 times and I watched the DVD more times than I can remember; I imagined I was pregnant and I! imagined I was a mother with a baby in my arms; I heard "What a Wonderful World" (that was played at my wedding) as I was under a anaesthetic having my eggs retrieved and I believed this was a sign; I believed there were no signs; I prayed; I chose not to believe; I willed myself fertile and pregnant; I listened to Oprah and I wrote in my gratitude journal every night; I surrounded myself with pregnant friends and those with children; I stayed away from pregnant friends and those with children; I followed every doctor's, naturopath's, counsellor's, psychologist's, Chinese herbalist's, clairvoyant's, friend's, acquaintance's, magazine's, TV celebrities' and old wives tales advice; I stopped trying to fall pregnant; I dedicated very essence of my being to falling pregnant; I decorated the baby's room; I didn't decorate the baby's room; I investigated egg donors here and overseas; I investigated adoption; I tried a natural fertility program for 2.5 years; I tried fertility drugs for 1 year; I put my life on hold; I lived my life as if there was no tomorrow; I laughed; I cried; I curled up in bed and didn't get up; I did more things than I can remember; I ate a high protein diet; I relaxed; I stressed out; I relaxed again; I stressed out even more; I was empty; I was consumed; I jumped out of bed and seized the day; I didn't buy clothes as I thought soon I wouldn't fit them; I bought clothes hoping soon I won't fit them; I embraced my family and friends; I isolated my family and friends; I loved; I hated; I was admitted to the maternity ward when I had my first miscarriage with the twins at 15 weeks; I cried; I tried not to cry; I prayed; I only told my mum once I was pregnant; I told my 2 best friends twice I was pregnant; I believed; I didn't believe: I tried to forget; can never forget; I thought I didn't deserve to have a baby; I thought I did something very bad in my life; I was positive; I was negative; I was positive again; I said affirmations; I searched my daily stars; I looked for more signs - even very small ones; I listened; I covered my ears and yelled to drown out the world; I knew I lived a good life; I lost my way; I found it again; I lost my way again; I loved myself more; I despised myself; I thought I was ok; I was the best wife; I was the worst wife; I was whatever I was told to be; I am now someone I don't know anymore........

I never gave up hope until there was no hope - ever.

I have had the support of my beautiful husband who has two children in their 30's. He's only 52 and I have only known him for 10 years.

I am not the person I was and I don't know who I am supposed to be anymore.

I wonder all the time. I had one natural pregnancy. Did I do the right thing continuing IVF ...16 times... 32 embryos...how do you really know when to give up hope? Should I have tried number 17? Should I have stopped at number 3? Should I try again.

I wonder if I will ever see my babies. I wonder if I caused their death. I wonder if I did something better would they be here with me today. I wonder if I was a mother. I wonder how I will keep going now we have decided to stop? I wonder what to do with my life? I wonder what is the meaning of my life? I think there is no meaning. I think too much.

Submitted anonymously

Photo source: foxspain

With Love

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 22:00:00 +0000

With love, you were conceived.

With divine power, your life was given.

With awe, we heard your heartbeat.

With joy, we found out you were a boy.

With pride, we named you Cameron.

With excitement, we felt you move.

With wonder, we watched you grow.

With patience, nine months passed.

With fear, we drove to the hospital.

With dread, we waited to hear your heartbeat.

With shock, we found out the worst.

Without warning, you had died.

With endless sadness, we held your stillness.

With tears, we buried you.

With pain, we grieved for you.

With emptiness, we learnt to live.

With heartache, we continue to miss you.

With love, we will always remember you.

This post was first published on Rhonda's blog, Life Without Cameron, on June 30th, 2010.

Photo source: MahPadilha

Today

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Wed, 24 Nov 2010 22:58:00 +0000

Today I should be 30 weeks pregnant.
But I am not.
Instead my body bleeds. Physically.
I ask myself, "How cruel can nature be?"

Today I should be 30 weeks pregnant.
But I am not.
The days pass but the pain is always there.
My mind continues to think.
My eyes continue to weep.
My heart continues to shatter.
Into smaller and smaller pieces.

Today I should be 30 weeks pregnant.
But I am not.
No one else will remember.
Not even those close to me.
Everyone else moves forward.
While I am left standing still.

Today I should be 30 weeks pregnant.
But I am not.
Instead I dress in my armour.
The one which protects others from my hurt.
I will take my toddler to playgroup.
I will smile. And chat. And drink tea.
And be happy for all that I have.
But it will not change the fact.

Today I should be 30 weeks pregnant.
But I am not.

With tears of love, Christie x

Missing my Princess

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 22:30:00 +0000

I loved you as soon as I had learned

that you were growing within me.

In that moment I became a mother.

I day dreamed about you.

In my mind's eye

I imagined you

and looked forward

to feeling you grow within me.

In my mind's eye

I imagined holding you

and looked forward

to the first time

I would lay eyes on you.

But it all remained

in my mind's eye.

I did not feel you grow within me.

I did not hold you.

I have never laid eyes on you.

But in the moment

I knew you existed

You were in my heart.

My heart aches

that you are not with me.

There are so many memories

that will never be created.

And the longing in my heart

to hold you remains.

I know that one day

I will hold you.

I know that one day

I will lay eyes on your

beautiful face.

You are being cared for by angels.

And I will be with you

for Eternity sweet child.

The pain of separation

although at times unbearable

is being healed by the One

who made a way for us

to be together for Eternity.

The One you are with right now.

I love you my child.

I miss you my Princess.

I will always be your Mother.

You will always be in my heart.

This post originally appeared on Jo-Anne's blog, Princess Warrior Lessons.

Photo source: Mark Valli

Places to Find Comfort

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 23:30:00 +0000

The following are a number of new links which have been submitted to With Tears of Love by readers or friends. If you have a story or link to share as a parent or family member who has experienced miscarriage or pregnancy loss, please contact us here.

This Dirty Word: a post by Irma Gold on the Overland blog, sharing her personal story of miscarriage

"This morning I stood in my sun-drenched garden thick with the perfume of jonquils. Everywhere around me was new life. The apple trees full of tight little buds, grass thick and bright from recent rain, the birch tree trailing bushy new growth. And on this day filled with lushness my baby was due to be born.

Except that he or she won’t be, because at 12 weeks I miscarried."

Irma is currently editing an anthology of real-life stories about miscarriage to be published by Mostly for Mothers, an imprint of Wombat Books, and is calling for submissions. Details can be found here.

A Sense of Loss That Has No Name: a post by Megan Gressor on smh.com.au about the impact of her unborn baby sister's death on herself and her family.

"EVERY FAMILY HAS its secrets; ours had three. The first was that my father's name wasn't the one that appeared on his birth certificate. The second was that his father, my grandfather, whom I'd always been told was dead, was very much alive, if forever off-stage; something I didn't discover until adulthood. And the third was my sister, Catherine, who died at birth and was never mentioned by name again."

Bears of Hope: support and information for parents who experience the loss of a baby during pregnancy, birth or infancy.

Please visit our "links of support" page for further links.

Photo source: samcaplat

A Grandmother's Story

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 23:21:00 +0000

As a mother and a grandmother, baby loss within my family has been one of the hardest things I have ever had to deal with. To watch your daughter being told the news that things are not what they seem, to see her struggling to cope with the decisions she needs to make, to see the devastation that this loss has caused ... Well it breaks my heart.

As a Mother all I ever wanted is for my children to be happy, to have love, laughter and happiness in their lives always. And now, I see my daughter's heart breaking and I know I can not mend it. I see the loss and defeat in her eyes and I want to tell her to try again, don't give up, if you truly want another child it will happen. But it is not my place to offer false hope for I can not guarantee that she will be blessed with another baby. And so, as much as my heart wants to offer her this encouragement, I keep my thoughts to myself.

As a Grandmother I have taken this loss harder than I thought I would. Months later I am still shedding tears of love for this little one lost. Even though we never got to meet, even though I had only a few months of knowing that my daughter was pregnant before this little one was gone, I still had time to dream, to imagine, to plan all the things we would do together. I could feel the presence of this little one in my life, and then in a moment, it was all taken away. I sometimes wonder why my grief is so strong, given that it was not my child lost but my daughter's child. And then I realised that even though this little one did not take a breath, even though he was not old enough to be legally given a name, that there is no denying that he is my grandchild number 3, and if I do not grieve, if I do not acknowledge this little soul then he is truly lost to me. And so in my heart he has a name and his name is Noah ... For Noah built an ark, one that was strong, one that weathered the storms and survived the floods. And so I know that when the flood of tears that have been shed rise up and surround my little Noah, I know that he is safe and strong somewhere in the Universe wrapped in his Mother's and his Grandmother's love. xxx

This post was submitted by Karen.

Photo source: Scarleth White

What Grieving People Want You To Know

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 22:30:00 +0000

I am not strong - I'm just numb. When you tell me I am strong, I feel that you don't see me.

I will not recover - this is not a cold or the flu. I'm grieving and that's different. I will not always be grieving as intensely, but I will never forget my baby, and rather than recover I want to incorporate their life and love into the rest of my life. That baby is a part of me and always will be, and sometimes I will remember them with joy and other times with sadness. Both are OK.

I don't have to accept death - yes, I understand that it has happened and is real but there are some things in life that are unacceptable.

Please don't avoid me, you can't catch my grief. My world is painful and when you are afraid to call or visit or say anything, I am isolated at a time when I need most to be cared about. If you don't know what to say, just touch my arm, or give me a hug and just say I'm sorry.

Please don't say to call if I need anything, I'll never call because I have no idea what I need.

Please send me a card on special holidays, birthdays or the anniversary of the death.

Please say their name. You can't make me cry, the tears are always there. It gives me the opportunity to shed some tears because someone cared enough to reach out to me.

Ask me more than once to join you in going out, I may say no at first, or even for a while, but please don't give up on me, because somewhere down the line I will be ready and if you have given up then I will really be alone.

These words were found via a friend on Facebook. The original source is unknown but I will gratefully add it if you know where it is from.

Photo source

My Little Princess Found In Heaven

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 00:35:00 +0000

Before I became pregnant with my first son I miscarried. It was a hard time and I remember thinking "How do women get through this without the Hope of Christ?" It was very hard.

My pregnancy was announced the week before at my church and during the following week I lost the baby. It was my 12th week of pregnancy. I rang my Pastor before the Sunday morning service and shared with him what had happened and asked him not to announce the miscarriage during the service. I told him that I would rather the word got out by word of mouth. We didn't attend the service that morning. But imagine my horror when my miscarriage was announced against my wishes.

The next week we went to church and had people with good intentions saying, "All things work together for good for those that love the Lord", or "There was probably something wrong with the baby that's why you lost the baby." Every well intended comment cut deeper and I felt very alone. I also heard whispers through the church of, "Why didn't they leave the announcement of the pregnancy until she was 12 weeks?" It was sad and isolating time.

No-one knew what to say and I didn't know what to do. So it wasn't talked about much. But I cried a lot, and then when we were ready, my husband and I tried again for another baby and became pregnant with our son. I didn't think a lot about the baby I lost and focused on the one that was growing within me. I did however think of the baby around the time that she was due to be born.

Time passed and I was so happy to become a mother with my first son. 2 and 1/2 years passed and I gave birth to my second son. I was in the Christian book shop one day and picked up a book titled, Jesse: Born in Heaven by Chris Pringle. It was the only Christian book I ever found on the subject of losing a baby.
I took this book home and read it and all these feelings and emotions that I had suppressed over the 2 1/2 years came flooding up and I weeped, howled and cried. I found such healing from this book. Learning that I had a baby waiting for me in Heaven being raised by angels.

More time passed and I was due to have my 3rd baby, I was sure that this one was girl. But the ultrasound showed that it was a boy. I was puzzled as my husband and I had picked a girls name but not a boys. So I now have 3 gorgeous boys and was happy with my family.

Then one day, my sister rang me and asked if she can come over that afternoon. She said that she had a gift for me and that she wanted to give it to me today as she was going away for a few weeks and it couldn't wait until she got back. I was very curious.

When she turned up she had a copy of Jesse: Found in Heaven in her hand with a beautiful card wrapped up in a ribbon. (I had given my copy away to a friend that had a stillborn and didn't want to ask for it back.) My sister didn't realise that I had already read it, but was thinking of buying a copy again for myself. She had just been to a Ladies meeting where the author Chris Pringle was speaking and sharing her story.

The card was hot pink and had a picture of an angel holding a baby and read:
"To My Darling Beautiful Sister,
Please be blessed by this gift....
Please forgive me for not acknowledging your loss. I felt God say to me 'The baby in Heaven is the daughter Jo-Anne thought she never had."
Love Fi xo"

I was so touched. It was a precious moment. My baby had a gender. I immediately thought of the name that my husband and I had picked for a girl - Lanay. Yes, I do have a daughter and she's waiting for me in Heaven. I happily tell everyone that I have 4 children, Lanay, my daughter waiting for us in Heaven and three boys.

This post originally appeared on Jo-Anne's blog, Princess Warrior Lessons.

Image source

Not making a sound

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 02:56:00 +0000

The world keeps on turning, around and around,
And your heart keeps on breaking, not making a sound,
You know it cant last, you'll recover one day,
And you know that they're right with the things that they say,
"It's for the best" "just not meant to be"
But inside you're screaming "but why to me?"

And you know that in time the sun will come out,
Your pain still a whisper but at least not a shout,
You'll never forget the dark shadows of this,
The truth is you'll never feel their soft kiss,
And you keep on thinking "What if?" and "Why not?"
The "Why cant I be happy with what I HAVE got?"

But really they're right with the things that they say,
Though accepting that now seems a long way away,
The pains still too raw, the anger too deep,
So tired of grieving yet not ready to sleep,
You want to move on, get back on your feet,
But you're scared of forgetting their memory, so sweet,

And although their time was so basic and brief,
That still doesn't lighten the unbearable grief,
You sit there and think "There are worse off than me"
"A bit of perspective's what there needs to be"
There are days that you think "I'm feeling alright"
But then you feel guilty for feeling so bright,

And even those closest think it's time to move on,
That the time for wailing has now been and gone,
Dont punish them though, they're just caring for you,
Want to end all the pain that you're going through,
Feel that if you just start living your life,
You'll return somehow into their sparkling wife,

Well maybe they're right, what else can you do?
One step, than another, keep plodding through,
Some will be dark days, some not so bad,
But in time the good days will out-number the sad,
So your life goes on now, decisions to make,
And you're bright and you're bold, for everyone's sake,
And the world keeps on turning, around and around,
But, at times, you sit weeping, not making a sound

Submitted by Lesley.

The Silence of Loss

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 22:30:00 +0000

When I discovered I was pregnant for the first time, my husband and I were ecstatic. We'd been trying for awhile, and finally we had a positive pregnancy test. For anyone who has been trying to conceive, you would understand the roller-coaster ride.....the waiting game.....month in, month out. When it finally happened, we couldn't contain our excitement, and so shared our news with everyone. I was 8 weeks pregnant.

A couple of days after we shared our news, I started spotting. A "reassuring" GP convinced me that this was normal.

At 10 weeks, a scan confirmed there was no heartbeat.

Sorry for your loss. When I heard those words, I felt something I had never felt before. Absolute devastation.

It was awkward at first when people were still congratulating us on the pregnancy and we had to say We lost the baby. But life went on.....superficially. I recovered physically and continued on with work and my involvement in church life. But emotionally, I was fragile. Nobody understood what I had just been through.

About 6 months after our loss, another test revealed we were pregnant again. I breathed a sigh of relief when we passed the 10 week mark. And this time we waited until the "magic" 12 week mark “to be sure" before we told anyone. Things were fairly smooth sailing with this pregnancy. Sure, I suffered from fatigue in the first trimester, and I was queasy - but nothing that couldn't be fixed with some food right now! I was enjoying my pregnancy and the amazing way my body was changing to grow the life within me. We were in awe when we had the first scan and saw that everything was in its right place. No words can accurately describe the intensity of emotion when seeing your baby on the ultrasound screen for the very first time and seeing that it's all okay.

At 24 weeks, as I was getting ready for work, I noticed some very, very, very mild spotting. Because of my previous miscarriage, I sat there, unsure what to do. Was it enough to warrant a call to my obstetrician, or should I just go to work and see if anything happened? Something told me to make the call. After speaking to my obstetrician, I rang work and said I wouldn't be in.

My husband drove me to the hospital. At this stage we were assuming I'd be checked over, sent home and I'd go back to work the next day. But after my obstetrician examined me, I knew this wouldn't be the case. Your cervix is dilating.

So, I was put on bed rest, hooked up to monitors and given injections of steroids to try and slow things down. All the while, I was asked Are you in any pain? My answer was always No. My husband rang our church so people could start to pray. Then, after a couple of hours: You're still dilating. We are going to transfer you to another hospital with a NICU just in case. Ok. At this stage, I still thought things would slow down and I would be sent home. But the pain started in the ambulance on the way to the other hospital. Wow did the pain start! It was 12:30pm.

Five hours later, after enduring a drug-free labour, I gave birth to a tiny 790g baby boy. He was immediately whisked away and came back to us after what seemed like an eternity. He looked so tiny in the humidicrib. He was ventilated and the paediatrician was inflating his lungs as he brought him over to us. Despite being so small, he was perfectly formed in every way.

The next 12 hours were a blur of doctors and nurses faces, combined with a growing sense of uncertainty. I slept very little that night. I was in a single room in the maternity unit - and the sound of crying babies evoked such sadness when I realised I wasn't able to hold my own baby and comfort him.

After hours of praying and soul-searching, I was taken to the neo-natal unit in the early hours of the morning. Alexander hadn't made it through the night. Despite being given doses of steroids, his lungs were too immature to keep him alive. The next few hours were a fog of phone calls and tears. Our family came but most of the time together was spent in silence because nobody knew what to say. The social worker who visited didn't know what to say. Silence.

After being discharged from hospital, we had to make funeral arrangements. It’s not something we expected to be doing at 25 years of age.

The days, weeks and months after we lost Alex were surreal. We felt like we were in a time warp. We were standing still while everyone and everything continued to move around us. The days and especially the nights, were so heavy with the pain of sadness and loss. And the intensity of grief was something that we had never experienced before. People didn’t really know what to say to us, so many stayed away. The silence of our loss was so difficult to bear.

Eight years have passed since that day, and while life has moved on, and the sun has shone again for us, there will always remain a deep sense of sadness and loss within my heart for our beautiful little boy, Alexander.

This post was first published by Debbie on her blog, Aspiring Mum.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about. If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing. You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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My New "Normal"

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 23:00:00 +0000

~ Author Unknown

Normal is having tears waiting behind every smile when you realize someone important is missing from all the important events in your family’s life.

Normal for me is trying to decide what to take to the cemetery for Birthdays Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, Valentine’s Day, July 4th and Easter.

Normal is reliving that day continuously through your eyes and mind.

Normal is every happy event in my life always being backed up with sadness lurking close behind, because of the hole in my heart.

Normal is staring at every baby who looks like she is my baby’s age. And then thinking of the age she would be now and not being able to imagine it. Then wondering why it is even important to imagine it, because it will never happen.

Normal is telling the story of your child’s death as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone’s eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of my “normal”.

Normal is each year coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your child’s memory and her birthday and survive these days.

Normal is my heart warming and yet sinking at the sight of something special that my baby would have loved, but how she is not here to enjoy it.

Normal is having some people afraid to mention my baby.

Normal is making sure that others remember her.

Normal is after the funeral is over everyone else goes on with their lives, but we continue to grieve our loss forever.

Normal is weeks, months, and years after the initial shock, the grieving gets worse sometimes, not better.

Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to this loss, unless they too have lost a child. NOTHING. Even if your child is in the remotest part of the earth away from you – it doesn’t compare. Losing a parent is horrible, but having to bury your own child is unnatural.

Normal is trying not to cry all day, because I know my mental health depends on it.

Normal is realizing I do cry everyday.

Normal is being impatient with everything and everyone, but someone stricken with grief over the loss of your child.

Normal is a new friendship with another grieving mother, talking and crying together over our children and our new lives.

Normal is not listening to people make excuses for God. “God may have done this because…” I love God, I know that my baby is in heaven, but hearing people trying to think up excuses as to why babies were taken from this earth is not appreciated and makes absolutely no sense to this grieving mother.

Normal is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have three children or two, because you will never see this person again and it is not worth explaining that my baby is in heaven. And yet when you say you have two children to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed your baby.

Normal is knowing I will never get over this loss, in a day or a million years.

And last of all, Normal is hiding all the things that have become “normal” for you to feel, so that everyone around you will think that you are “normal.”

Submitted by Rachel.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about. If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing. You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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Welcome

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 23:41:00 +0000

It is finally here, created with many, many personal tears of love shed over the past few months.

Since losing my own baby at 16 weeks gestation, my dream has been to create a place of support and understanding for those who have experienced the loss of a baby, through pregnancy or shortly thereafter. Here you will find the stories of those who have shared their grief in the hope that they can provide comfort to others, information for family and friends for supporting mothers and fathers who are grieving, and links to other online support services.

Pregnancy loss is not spoken openly about in our society. Oftentimes, this grief is left unacknowledged as we are awkward and do not know how to comfort each other when we are grieving the loss of someone we never really had the opportunity to get to know. And yet mothers, fathers, children, grandparents, extended family, friends - all are left changed by the loss of a baby, the dream of a life together which is shattered when that life is taken too soon.

In the days following the loss of my own baby, I had absolutely no idea how to feel or what to expect. I searched the internet for stories of other mothers who had stood where I was. I ached for a sense of connection within my loneliness. I needed to know that there were others out there who understood, that I was not alone in what I was feeling, and I needed to find hope that I would come out of the other side. And although each person’s story is different, reading about the experiences of others helped me. My dream is that With Tears of Love will also help others.

The loss of any baby is tragic, whatever the circumstances. Please respect that this is not a place to debate personal beliefs or values, instead this is a place to honour those babies lost and to reach out and uphold those experiencing personal grief.

Today I invite you to read these stories and be open with your support, you might also like to subscribe so that you stay updated when new stories are added. I also invite you to light a candle at 7pm this evening as October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. If everyone lights a candle tonight and keeps it burning for at least one hour, the whole world will be lit in a continuous wave of light burning bright in memory of our angels. I cannot tell you how much the picture in my mind of this wave of light which acknowledges the life of my baby boy comforts me, especially as I have so little to remember him by.

With tears of love, Christie x

Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about. If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing. You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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The Loss of Another Baby

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 21:15:00 +0000

I don't know whether I am up to writing this or not.

But I think that writing things down will actually be therapeutic for me at the moment. A way of proclaiming that this baby was here. This baby existed. So here goes...

This morning I had a scan which confirmed that I had lost my baby. It really didn't come as much of a surprise. But more of that in a moment. For now, I want to share the joy we felt at finding out we were pregnant again after the ectopic pregnancy I had earlier this year.

I think it was about the fourth cycle after the ectopic pregnancy that we conceived this little one. We had been trying for a few months but we were anticipating that it might take a while longer since I now only had one tube. I think I knew I was pregnant a couple of days before my period was due. Every other month I'd been getting little signs that my period was coming, but nothing this month. I was feeling slightly light headed and strange the day before it was due, while at work, so decided to do a test when I got home (even though I had told myself I wouldn't do one until the following day!)

POSITIVE. I spent ages in the toilet trying to get the damn test to work. Turned out I didn't put enough wee on it so it took absolutely ages to show up! Chris ended up coming to check on me because I took so long. But those two lines did eventually turn up. I was so excited! I took the test down to show Chris and he was equally as excited. I felt that all would be well with this pregnancy and didn't worry too much about all that had gone on beforehand. We decided that we would keep this news to ourselves until we were quite far along this time as I couldn't bear the thought of telling people we were pregnant and then having to tell them we had lost it again.

6 weeks: I went for an early ultrasound just to check that this pregnancy was in the right place. We couldn't take the risk that this was another ectopic pregnancy seeing as I only have one tube. Good news, it was definately in my uterus! But the sonographer dated my pregnancy at 5 weeks along not 6+2 weeks like my dates. Straight away, this gave me a little niggling feeling. My periods had been so regular and I didn't really see how the dates could be more than a week different. But I guess it is possible. So I tried to put my doubts behind me and focus on the fact that the pregnancy was in the right spot.

The pregnancy continued for a couple more weeks. I was feeling pretty good although initial symptoms such as tiredness, light-headedness and the occasionally sick feeling seemed to wear off a bit. I'd already been questioning why I hadn't felt so sick, as I had with both other pregnancies. But, once again, I passed this off.
I got to about 7+3 weeks and then when I went to the toilet that afternoon, discovered some blood. Not much at all but enough to make my heart sink. I'd said to Chris earlier that as soon as any bleeding started I'd know it was the end. The bleeding increased just a little bit each day until Wednesday when I started bleeding quite heavily. I experienced period pains all day and then Wednesday evening I had quite bad cramps and passed a large clot.

I knew that was it. That my baby had passed. That moment of realisation is the worst moment in the world. This was the moment during my ectopic pregnancy that I knew my baby had gone too. There are no words to explain that feeling. It evokes such strong emotions. Hurt. Sorrow. Disbelief. Shock. Anger. Bitterness.

So the scan this morning didn't bring any surprises. Although there was some small part of me that was still hanging onto a shred of hope. But in my heart I knew. It appears that my body was able to pass this baby on it's own which I guess is one positive about the whole thing. I was terrified that it wouldn't have all passed and that I would have to go to hospital again (you know how much I hate hospitals!!) The sonographer said there was still a tiny amount of blood left and to expect some spotting over the next week or so but that's all.

I have found the second time round to be so much harder than the first time. The first couple of days I just cried and cried. Chris had to take time off from work because I just wasn't capable of looking after the kids. I fear that I am a bad mother because whenever I look at my kids I am reminded of what I have lost and I resent them for that. Yet, everyone tries to tell me that I should be grateful that I have them.

And then there have been the reactions of people. Some people have no idea how to respond. Some people pledge that they care about you but then offer no support other than the initial 'sorry to hear about what happened'. And then there are the unthinking kind of comments. I was at the pool with Esme the other day and the supervisor at the pool asked how old Esme was. I said two and then made a comment about how she was growing up too quickly. So what did the person say to me 'Well, why don't you have another one then?'. That comment made me feel like bursting into tears.

And the future? I am scared to get pregnant again. I am scared that my body will let me down again like it has done twice already. How on earth can I trust it to do it's job? I know, in my heart, that I need to learn to love my body again after this. That I will need to do that to be able to fall pregnant again. But right now I feel like my mind is in conflict with my body. I am feeling exhausted after losing this baby. But I can't allow myself to just stop and rest. Part of that is to do with not wanting to give myself time to think too much. But I think another part is, subconsciously, wanting to punish my body for what it has done to me.

For now, I have to focus on each day as it comes. Thinking too much about the future is just too hard right now.

This post was first published by Narelle on her blog, A Bunch of Keys, on 3rd September 2010.

Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about. If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing. You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.

Blossoms

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 22:57:00 +0000

I knew. I could see the face of the woman performing the ultrasound and I knew something was wrong.
“Something is wrong isn’t it? What’s wrong with my baby?” The woman put her hand on my arm, gave me a sympathetic smile and said, “I’m sorry. There is no heartbeat; it looks like your baby died around 2 weeks ago."

I was 18 and almost 13 weeks pregnant. I was in the clinic alone because my parents were not happy about my decision to keep the baby and my boyfriend was at work. Why was he at work? Because I had lost my job for being pregnant as it was going to “hurt the image of the company” to keep me on.

The baby had been a surprise. I had been on oral contraceptives. My boyfriend and I had not made the decision lightly to keep our baby. A doctor insisted I have an abortion. It caused upheaval in our families but I rubbed my belly each night and told the tiny person growing inside me that I loved it, no matter what everyone else thought. That I would take care of it, even though I was still a baby myself. That even though it was not planned it would be loved. And that no matter what happened we would always have each other.

From the moment I knew I was pregnant my whole life changed to make room for a baby.

And my whole life was changed when I was told my baby had died.

Everyone was relieved and assumed I was too. I was even told that “nature had done me a little favor”. I was treated as if my baby didn’t matter when I was sent in for a D&C. That at 18 I couldn’t possibly grieve over a baby I had not planned in the first place.

But I was shattered. I grieved deeply and in private. I mourned and fell apart. I just couldn’t fathom why this would happen. I blamed myself. I blamed everyone else. I cried and cried. Eventually I healed. I’m 13 years older and have 3 wonderful daughters. But every year on November 12 (my due date) I wonder what my child would be like today. She (I have always thought she was a girl) would have been 13 this year and sometimes it still feels raw. Why am I telling you this?

Because I want you to know that it’s OK to grieve. That it’s OK to be totally devastated at losing your baby. Please find support. Talk to people who understand. Go gently with yourself. Accept help.

A dear friend gave me flowers when I miscarried another baby 4 years ago, the card read “in memory of those who blossomed so briefly”. I think that description of babies lost before birth is apt. Much love and support to those of you who have had babies who have blossomed briefly.

This post was kindly submitted by Shae of Yay for Home.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about. If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing. You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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To The Child In My Heart

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 23:14:00 +0000

Precious, tiny, sweet little one
You will always be to me
So perfect, pure and innocent
Just as you were meant to be.

We dreamed of you and your life
And all that it would be
We waited and longed for you to come
And join our family.

But now you're gone... but yet you're here
We sense you everywhere
You are our sorrow and our joy
There's love in every tear.

Just know our love goes deep and strong
We'll forget you never-
The child we had, but never had,
And yet will have forever.

~ Author unknown

This poem was kindly submitted by Narelle. Read more on her blog, A Bunch of Keys.

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To My Angel

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 14:09:00 +0000

I lost my little angel before she reached 12 weeks. Apparently that makes me lucky because I didn't have enough time to get really attached.
The pain I felt burnt me from the inside out.
We recently gave birth to a little baby girl. I held my breath for 9 months, praying that nothing would go wrong.
She is perfect. Just like my first. I know this even though I never met her. Call it mothers bias if you will!

Here is my letter to her...

Dearest Angel of Mine,

It will be a long time until we meet, not the nine months I originally envisioned.

When you were tucked up in the safety of my womb I dreamt of what your life would be. I dreamt of the future, of your future, of our future together.

You made your father and I so happy, even if it was only for a short while, you were real and so is our love for you.

I bled for you. I cried for you. I mourned your passing loudly, quietly, openly and in private.

I think about you all the time. I take comfort in knowing you will never feel any pain. Never know rejection or embarrassment or fear. But you know love because we love you. We will always love you.

We will meet again in heaven, finally, I will hold you in my arms. Until then, know that your mother loves you, and that love is eternal.

All my heart,
Mum

Submitted by Aly via email.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about. If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing. You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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Lost... but not forgotten

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 13:35:00 +0000

We always wanted a large family, my husband and I. After the birth of our two daughters, we were excited about adding another child to our family. I was still breastfeeding my 9-month-old when I had a sudden attack of severe pain. Then I started to bleed. I originally thought the bleeding and pain were due to my menstrual cycle returning for the first time after pregnancy and breastfeeding. For the next 2 weeks I bleed off and on coupled with intersperse periods of pain. I then had this sudden thought: maybe I’m pregnant and this is a miscarriage. I visited my general practitioner, who immediately did a pregnancy test. It came back negative. The doctor told me to go home and take panadol for period pain. This was Thursday. On Sunday at 11.40am, I was in the car with my husband and two girls when I experienced a sudden pain like someone had stabbed me in the stomach. I couldn’t help but allow a scream to escape my lips. My husband said, “We are going to the hospital.” I didn’t argue. The pain got worse and then all of a sudden, I knew my life draining away from me. With eyes wide I looked over at my husband in the driver’s seat and said, “I’m going to die.” Later I found out I was -- I was dying.
We reached the hospital emergency centre and my husband ran out and left me in the car with the girls. I was screaming from the pain. I remember trying not to because I knew the girls were in the backseat, my eldest being only 2. “What’s wrong Mum?” I heard her say but I couldn’t speak. Soon after, three men rushed out and somehow got me inside the emergency centre.

I didn’t want drugs. I don’t know why – I just didn’t. But the doctors gave me some anyway. It felt like ants crawling inside my body as the medicine surged through my veins. I couldn’t move but the pain eased some.
“We’ll have to do a pregnancy test,” someone said.
“I’ve just had one done and it was negative,” I replied.
“It’s just standard procedure.”
Right then, my husband left with the girls. We had no family around, so he planned to go home and find someone to mind them so he could come back and be with me.

The next thing I knew I was having an ultra-sound. After being whisked back to the emergency bay, I was told I needed to be transferred to another hospital by ambulance. No one told me anything else.

Could. Not. Move.

The ambulance officer wheeled me into the ambulance and starting doing observations.
“How many weeks along are you?” He asked looking up from his clipboard.
“Excuse me?”
“How many weeks pregnant are you?”
“I’m not pregnant,” I said
There was silence, followed by some other questions.

On the journey to the nearby hospital I felt every bump.
“Mate, be careful of the bumps,” the ambulance officer called out to the driver.
“She’s in a lot of pain.”
I was wheeled into the emergency bay of a much larger hospital. I stared at the ambulance officer’s belt line where a watch was hanging. I liked it so I just kept staring. The watch captured me and I kept my eyes fixed. The watch was important to me.

“She needs some more medication,” I heard someone say, “She’s in so much pain and I’m not sure we can move her.”
I kept starring.
“One. Two. Three.”
I screamed as they moved me to another bed.
“How many weeks pregnant are you?” the attending doctor asked.
“I haven’t been told I’m pregnant but I obviously am because people keep asking me.”

Silence.

I remember at this point feeling a wave of loss sweep over my body like a hot pain. I had been pregnant but something was very, very wrong. I couldn’t see the hanging watch anymore. It had become a lifeline to me. Where was it?

“Where’s my husband?” I asked.
“We’ll ring him for you sweetie,” a kindy-looking nurse said from beside me. I didn’t realise she was there.
I started to shake. I couldn’t control my body. I wondered what was going on. No one would tell me. I was in pain. I could hardly breathe. I didn’t know anyone. I was alone.

Another doctor peered down at me. “We have to operate. And I’m sorry, but we might have to take your entire womb. You may not be able to have any more children.”

I was devastated. And then I prayed: Thank you God for my two girls, and if that’s all the children I’m meant to have, I thank you. I felt content. I didn’t feel so alone.

I was wheeled down corridors, up a lift and through rubber swinging doors into a cold room. It felt like death. I lay there and I was shaking uncontrollably.
I felt desperate to see my husband. I needed to see him. I wanted to hear his voice. Where was he?
I heard people talking outside the cold room and someone came in and whispered to the anaesthetic doctor on duty.
“Your husband is here. He is insistent on seeing you so we are going to wheel you out. I warn you though, as soon as the surgeon comes, we’ll be taking you straight away.” The anaesthetic doctor looked rather annoyed.
There he was – my husband: tall, handsome and ever so worried. “I love you precious.”
He held my hand for a moment, then I was taken away – back to the cold room. It was a poignant moment; it was a moment that seemed to occur in slow motion. I kept my eyes fixed on my husband until I could see him no more.

Lights everywhere. Masked faces looking down. Cold around my face. Nothing.

I slowly open my eyes. My husband’s brown eyes met mine. “They didn’t have to take your womb darling. You had an ectopic pregnancy but you’re going to be okay.”

Later the surgeon came to see me. He told me I had been bleeding internally for 2 weeks and by the time he got to me, I was bleeding profusely – and dying. I had at least 2 litres of blood sitting in my belly and was losing more – fast. He also said that I needed a blood transfusion and that I may not be able to fall pregnant again due to the damage caused internally.
I begged him not to give me a blood transfusion and he said he would wait two days for my blood results to come back at an acceptable level, and if not, he would have to do a transfusion due to blood loss. My blood tests came back just over the threshold and I was glad.
“You’re young and healthy,” he said, “You have bounced back amazingly.”

After a week in hospital, I went home. I was given a large plastic bag, with my belongings from emergency room. I took out my clothes to wash them and something fell out at my feet. It was my positive pregnancy test, lying there at my feet, with 2 lines so obvious. Then it hit me. I had lost a baby and to this day, I wonder who he/she was. I love my child. I miss this child I never had the chance to know. I also had potentially lost the ability to conceive more children.

My body grew stronger and I went through the motions of mental healing too. I cried. I grieved. I prayed. I accepted. I then, was truly content. A few months after the operation, I was blessed to fall pregnant with my third child, and then later – a fourth.

To bring a feeling of conclusion to the matter, I purchased two things because I felt I needed something physical to acknowledge that my lost child – was a life. I purchased a Pandora charm for my bracelet and I hunted down a hanging watch, just like the ambulance officers, for my husband. Something was lost... but not forgotten.

Read more about Kelly at Be A Fun Mum.

The ones we never knew

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 11:16:00 +0000

It's rather strange saying goodbye to a stranger, and that’s one of the many surreal moments that comes when you lose a baby through miscarriage. Those that have been there often aren’t quite sure just what they’re supposed to feel or think, as well as the family and friends that surround them.

After we had our first baby boy, I went through the painful experience of losing my brother. Soon after that I discovered that we were expecting our second child, and the fact that it was due around the anniversary of my brother’s death made that pregnancy even more special – a life to celebrate and bring joy after having been through such a sad time.

I was rather shocked then, when I miscarried. It was a sad experience (and rather scary going under general aesthetic at the hospital). I kept a little box with mementos in it - the positive pregnancy stick, my maternity booklet and sympathy cards... and life moved on.

I was amazed through this experience to discover how many others around me had also experienced miscarriages – many family members and friends shared with me about their losses. Some had found it sad, others had been seriously grief stricken by their loss, especially those who had dreams and hopes shattered after previously struggling with infertility.

A few years later we had another beautiful baby boy added to our family. Not feeling that our family was quite complete, we were happy (and surprised – haha) to find I was pregnant again. The pregnancy seemed to go along fine, and once I was past the ‘safe’ pregnancy stage I began to relax. You can then imagine our shock when at 18½ weeks pregnant, no heartbeat could be found during our maternity check up. An ultrasound soon revealed a perfectly formed image of a baby with no beating heart. Although I tried, I could not hold back the sobs.

I assumed that I would be put under general aesthetic and wake up afterwards and go home. Symon left the hospital to collect my things from home, and although I felt all alone, I knew God was with me.

That day turned out to be such a full on day. Because of the stage of the pregnancy, I was told I would have to deliver it naturally. Nothing can prepare you for facing a labour without a happy ending. The labour was painful, but during it, all I could think of was all of those amazing women who have had to give birth to still born children a lot further along than ours. My heart went out to each and every one of them.

After the encouragement of my AMAZING hubby and midwife, we chose to hold and look at this tiny baby that we never got to officially meet. It’s little nose looked just like our eldest boy's nose. It had teeny-tiny toes and fingers. A few weeks later we sprinkled our baby’s ashes where my brother’s ashes were also sprinkled (a local surf beach).

The next few weeks felt like a bit of a daze. I did cry and feel depressed at times. I knew God would turn this situation into something beautiful, so I held onto that promise. I knew that one day we would get to meet these precious little people. We could literally feel the peace of God surrounding us.

I felt to share my story to encourage those of you that have been through the loss of a child, that there is always hope in every dark situation you endure (including struggling relationships, pain or suffering, depression, loneliness). Keep holding on. Look up to Him, who can bring peace and hope in the midst of the most devastating of circumstances.

Chris Pringle (author of this book) encourages all women who have been through the loss of a baby to write about them as part of the healing process. This is what I have done, and encourage you to do too. xox

This post was first published on Kristy’s blog, Paisley Jade, on 6th September 2010.

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Maybe One?

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 13:55:00 +0000

Not viable.

That was the news I got yesterday when I went for an ultrasound.

I was six weeks pregnant.

The doctor said he knew things weren’t quite right before he even did the ultrasound, based on my lab work alone. I’ve already had bloodwork done three times since last Thursday. (I also went for an ultrasound last week, per doctor’s orders, but they couldn’t see anything yet.)

Obviously, I was upset with this news. I had been crazy tired, which always happens to me in early pregnancy. A little bit queasy. But there were no obvious signs that anything was wrong, as there had been in my previous miscarriages.

Nevertheless, I wasn’t completely surprised by the news of this miscarriage. The odds weren’t exactly in our favor.

Because if you’ve been keeping track…
Miscarriage at 5 weeks, December 2006
Finley was born, August 31, 2007
Miscarriage at 12 weeks, with resulting D & C, August 2009
Ruptured ectopic pregnancy (with removal of left tube and a chunk of my uterus), December 2009
and now….
Miscarriage at 6 weeks, March 2010.

The doctor said repeatedly that I didn’t do anything wrong. That it isn’t my fault that this happened.

But at the same time, I was thinking….

Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that Amoxocillin and Tylenol for my sinus infection, even though both my family doctor and OB said it was safe for early pregnancy.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been drinking even the DECAF coffee (because it still has a little bit of caffeine).

Maybe I should have eaten more veggies.

Maybe it’s because I’m overweight. (Though my BP and cholesterol are a-ok, and my doctor said that this shouldn’t make a big difference…)

Maybe I should have exercised more.

Maybe I should have done less and relaxed more.

Maybe I shouldn’t have lost my cool and yelled at Finn yesterday.

Maybe this is God’s way of telling me that we’re only meant to have one child.

Maybe we should have waited longer after the ruptured ectopic. They did take a wedge out of my uterus, after all. After the doctor told me that the pregnancy wasn’t viable, he also said that it is probably for the best. That maybe it was too soon after the ruptured ectopic and that I should let my uterus heal a little longer before trying again. (Wait! Didn’t he also say that I didn’t do anything wrong? And tell me that it was okay to go ahead and try again back in January?! Way to make me feel guilty.)

I think The Picky Apple and I (and the doctor, too) were surprised by how quickly I was able to get pregnant again. We figured it would take a little longer since I am down a tube. But apparently not.

And clearly it doesn’t matter anyway, if I can’t STAY pregnant.

For now, we’re taking a 6 month break. Then we’ll decide where to go from here.

Neither one of us has felt a strong urge to have a large family. I was always okay with 2 kids. But then after The Littlest Apple was born, it took us a while to decide we wanted a second child. It would be nice to have another child, but I don’t think either of us feels like our family won’t be complete until we have a second child. We might be okay with just one.

My doctor isn’t ready to send us for testing just yet. Nor has he said that we won’t be able to have more kids. But how much more can I really take, emotionally and physically?

And if this keeps happening, THEN what? I don’t think IVF or fertility treatments would really help, since fertility isn’t the problem. Surrogacy? Not sure if I want to go there. Adoption? Not sure about that either.
It’s starting to become more and more clear to me just how much of a miracle it is that we have The Littlest Apple. His name, which means “fair haired warrior” is SO appropriate, don’t you think?

Maybe one child is enough for us.

It is for now, anyway.

This post was first published by Cara on her blog, The Picky Apple, on 19th March 2010.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about. If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing. You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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No more baby

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 13:22:00 +0000

It was the 6th of September when I went for the O&G check up after a week of spotting and leakage. The nurse advised me to get a scan from the O&G. I have never felt so anxious while waiting and since I could sense that something is not right about this pregnancy, I felt even more anxious. I can only pray...

When I was called into the Gynecologist room, I told the whole situation to her and up to the examination bed to get my scan. The 1st scan (abdomen scan) failed to trace the fetus's heartbeat and it was confirmed by the 2nd scan through the vaginal. My heart dropped upon hearing this and I was ALONE! The gynecologist said I need to do a D&C immediately to avoid any infection since the fetus has died in 7 weeks old although through her scan it showed 8th week.

I cried when I called hubby but what needed to be done, need to be done fast. I signed the consent letter and then admitted.

The process was fast! It happened just like a blink of eyes - when I was conscious, it was DONE. My baby has gone! I was too tired to think or be sad about it... what I could do is just talked about the future plan with hubby as I lay down in the ward. And my mind was thinking about my lil Maximus. I miss him so much at the moment and wanted to hold him close in my arms.

It's just a feeling of loosing something precious and I guess Maximus is the one whom I hold preciously. But God is good...and He is good all the time.

Through this time of trial, I cling unto Him for His Mighty strength. I found strength in Him... thus I was able to control my emotion. When I went home, I has the comfort of Maximus, hubby and also my mother. It's a feeling for warm and secure.

Late at night, we had our bed-time bonding with Maximus. Low and behold, he uttered the word "No more baby'" and it surprised us! I guess my lil guy here know what has happened. He was aware or somehow in his spirit he was connected to us.

Well... I was relief when he uttered those words and it seems a confirmation to me that I have to accept this fact. So I surrender it to God and let him plan for our next one.

This post was first published on Danielle's blog, Reflection of Life, on September 9th, 2010.

Photo source

Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about. If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing. You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
Share

Words of Advice

noreply@blogger.com (with tears of love) — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 01:00:00 +0000

About a year ago now I had some friends go through miscarriage/ectopic pregnancies all around the same time. I remember my words were "I hope I never have to go through this."

Two months ago I did.... went for a scan and the gestational sac was empty. The doc called it a mis-miscarriage. I was devastated and heartbroken. The grief was so real. It turns out that the gestational sac had formed but the baby never really did.

The physical stuff was nothing compared to the emotional. I will heal, it will be a process. For us, it was the loss of the idea of the baby, all our talk had been around new bigger car, car seat, how our two sons would handle a younger sibling etc.

The grief is real, if you have friends going through this there are some ways you could support them. Cook them a meal, offer to look after older children, buy them flowers. Offer to listen. Don't be strange around them if you are pregnant or have a baby, they don’t want you to be weird around them, they just need you to be you during this time.

Submitted by Dansie via Childhood 101.